Panic
by peridxt
Summary: He stared down and watched the concrete floor, hand quavering ever so slightly on the firearm in his hands. He swallowed thickly. They didn't have time for this.
A/N: Nick having a panic attack.

* * *

It starts with a slight tremble in his hands.

It always starts with a slight tremble in his hands.

They had finally gotten to a safe house after fighting through what must have been three hordes. He was loading a pistol when one of the cartridges he was pushing in haphazardly fell to the floor.

It clinked and rolled away from his feet with a _chink kara-kara-kara_ and he stared down and watched it run over the concrete floor, hand quavering ever so slightly on the firearm in his hands.

He swallowed thickly.

 _No._

 _ **No.**_

 _No, we don't have time for this!_

His fingers trembled, then tremored, then shook. The movement traveled up his arms and down his spine until his whole body was vibrating anxiously.

The gun dropped from his grip and fell to the floor.

He reached out to lay a hand on the table to hold himself up, but the table was gone and his hand passed through air. He stumbled and knocked into the table ( _where were_ _ **you**_ _five seconds ago)_ and his left knee hit the ground. His right knee was right behind it, and the rest of his body caught up shortly after.

His forearms smacked into the rough concrete, rubbing uncomfortably against it, and he felt the tell-tale prickle that meant if he checked the soft underside of his arms there would be pale white lines beading red scratched up and down them.

He tried to take deep breathes but every breath was shallow and quick and panicked like it was going to be his last. He tried to relax his muscles but that only made them tighten more and his shoulders shake and when he sat up on his elbows and looked at his hands they blurred with movement. He tried to rationalize with himself that if he was going to die anywhere it was going to be on the streets battling zombies and not in a safe house reloading weapons but his mind refused logic and insisted that he was going to die _right_ this _moment_. He tried to reason that this was not the time nor the place to have a breakdown but then he realized he didn't know the time, the place, what he was doing, or even his name. His _name_ for God's sake.

His mouth was parched and he tried to swallow but his throat had closed up and he could barely breathe. He head dipped sharply and nearly hit the floor but he caught it in palms of his hands. His hands slipped and slid with sweat, shivered with cold, and tingled with numbness.

He tried to inhale through the block in his throat and choked, coughing with breath he didn't have. His thoughts were scared and frenzied and all that broke through was a half-crazed _I'm_ _ **dying**_ _oh my_ _ **GOD**_ A half-strangled sound clawed its way out of his throat, and he could feel it mangling his vocal chords. There was a quick thrum in his chest and he felt his heart stepping up a beat and his short fingernails raked down his face as another frightened noise hissed out from the back of his throat, ripping at already frayed nerves.

 _I'm dying I'm dying and I won't I'm dying and_ _ **oh my god I'm dying**_  
A terrified and incoherent train of thought stretched across his mind, blanking out everything else and repeating over and over and over again. His teeth gritted harshly, sending shivers of pain through his jaw. His fingers ran up his face and tangled tightly into hair thick with gel.

Rochelle had glanced over when she heard the clack of a gun hitting concrete, and whipped around when she saw Suit take a faltering step and crash to the ground. When she saw the way he was breathing - short and quick - she recognized what was happening.

He was having a panic attack.

Her sister would have them as well, curling up into a ball and swallowing screams that would only squeak with shortness of breath anyway. She couldn't believe that Nick (Suit, conman, Mr Gambling Man, ladies man, Mr. Slick-Smooth-And-Suave) would suffer from them. It made him seem vulnerable, flawed...

Human.

Ellis and Coach surged forward to shake Nick out of it, but Rochelle stopped them with a command of "Don't touch him!"

They both stopped and looked to her. Ellis's face was an open book, concern and helplessness clear on his face. Coach had a mask on, but a silent question in his eyes.  
"He's having a panic attack. If you touch him you'll only make it worse."  
She stepped forward and kneeled down next to Nick. She hovered close, but not to the point were she was intruding on his personal space.

"Nick," She spoke in a regular voice and watched him paw at his face choking out sounds of desperation with the eyes of a hawk, "Nick, honey, we gotta get movin' if we're gonna beat the horde." He hesitated, fingers curling slightly in recognition, and he half-twisted towards her voice.

"Nick. C'mon. Get up."

 _"Nick."_

Was that his name?

 _"Nick, honey,"_

It seemed so.

 _"We gotta get movin' if we're gonna beat the horde."_

The... horde? The zombie apoclypse. Fuck. Fuck!

 _"Nick. C'mon. Get up."_

 **Fuck.** He had just collapsed in front of everyone. Now he was weak. He had lost his mystique and guise of invulnerability. He growled low and hostile, but he supposed it was better than the earlier sounds that made him sound like he had swallowed shards of glass.

His tremoring hands eventually quivered to a stop, and he curled in on himself. His hands tightened to fists. He would never be able to recover his reputation now. Then a thought struck him. A horrible thought.

 _What if he had an attack while they were fighting zombies?_

Oh god.

He shook his head severely.

 _Don't think about it._ _ **Don't. Think. About it.**_

Oh god he'd die

 _Don't do this Nicolas_

 **Oh** **god he would die**

He scratched his fingers down his arms, trying to bring himself back to the present tense.

 **He was going to die**

He dug his nails into his bicep sharply.

 _ **Don't.**_

He sucked in a long breath and released it.

He did that again.

And again.

Once more.  
He slowly raised his head to see who had spoken to him. He couldn't remember now, his mind was jumbled and tired.

Rochelle met his eyes squarely, and he let out another deep breath.

"You like what you see, sweetheart?"  
Rochelle snorted and whapped his shoulder, albeit more gently than usual. She pushed herself into a standing position, towering over the gambler, and held out a hand to help him up. He took it and grasped, pulling himself back up onto his legs. He stumbled a little but got his feet back under him quickly.

The others watched this, and eventually turned back to what they had been doing before. Rochelle turned to go back to the bag she was packing with ammo when she felt a feather-light touch on her shoulder. She started to turn to look when Nick brushed past brusquely, leaving behind a mumured.  
"Thanks."


End file.
